


Maybe The Next Will Be Kinder

by TerraCherry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Turmoil, Loneliness, Love, M/M, Magical Realism, Past Lives, Post Reichenbach, Unrequited Love, a little fluffy too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCherry/pseuds/TerraCherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some beings circle each other in multiple lifetimes; some call it destiny, some call it need of familiarity or maybe it's just a coincidence. <br/>Sherlock is dead to the world and John is broken. It doesn't help the glimpses of what used to be come to confuse them.</p>
<p>A story of past and current lives and chances of finally overcoming the obstacles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story of Sherlock's comeback but isn't a case fic and the comeback is more of a frame for the exploration of feelings and past lives. Magical realism!  
> Apologises for the possible mistakes!

_I should not dare to leave my friend,_

_Because – because if he should die_

_While I was gone, and I – too late –_

_Should reach the heart that wanted me._

~Emily Dickinson

 

*

 

“Goodbye John.”

For the longest time that was the only thing he could hear.

 

*

 

The rain felt appropriate today; he too was grey, monotonous, going down. Some days were better, some worse, and today he had awoken with tremendous emptiness, for no apparent trigger. Of course his surroundings were full of triggers, and even if he would throw every item out and redress the place, these walls, floors, windows and doors and the seventeen steps would forever carry images, scents, whispers and meanings. On most days he cherished the memories but every now and then an insecure, hurt and angry lump somewhere in the corner of his heart said with a bitter voice: “Wouldn’t it be better without all this misery? He lied and left you in a blink, what does he deserve anymore?” And more. It was a cold and sad corner of a heart.

Today he was just weary. People tried their best to be supportive, and he was thankful, but often he could only feel their pity and that stung the worst. He had lost his temper a couple of times before, yelling at them he didn’t want their damn pity but people couldn’t quite keep it out of their eyes. How could they expect him to “heal” if they constantly reminded him how forlorn he was?

But the time was not wholly cruel; there were days when he was fine and told himself to go to taste the life outside of his thoughts. Not today though.

His mobile beeped somewhere in the sitting room. He padded across the room to check the message.

_From: Harry_

_Hi John, dinner @ my place? Dysfunctional sibling therapy!_

John snorted. Harry was blunt as ever. She and John hadn’t kept very much contact in years but lately she had reached out a bit more often. He weighed the offer: it would take his mind off things and pass the time but there was always a risk they started arguing. Last time he had declined, maybe he should go today.

_To: Harry_

_Ok, I’ll be there 7 o’clock. –J_

 

“Johnny!”

“Hi Harry, I brought the dessert.” He handed her a small bakery box.

“Mmm, chocolate cake!” She smiled, looking rather good nowadays, since she had been able to reduce her drinking. She had dyed her hair recently, she preferred to lighten and brighten her hair which was naturally the same ashy blonde shade as her brother’s. She was wearing a navy blue cotton dress, black legwarmers and a grey cardigan. She still had too much stuff for her little flat but she had cleaned up.

“It’s looking neat,” he noted.

“Yeaaah.”

“So, what have you cooked?”

“Red salad for starters, and grilled chicken, crispy potato wedges seasoned with herbs and mango-chili sauce and steamed vegetables for the main dish.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“You know I’m not a master chef but I’d think it’s edible,” she grinned.

They sat to the table that Harry had set ready. John made his best not to frown when Harry poured glasses of red wine for them.

“Relax,” she sighed.

“I didn’t do anything,” John defended.

“Your eyes are speaking volumes, brother.” She gave him the “you’re not fooling anyone” look.

“Sorry.”

“There is a middle ground, you know? Trust me a little,” she said firmly.

“I try.” It was the best John could promise, there were too many examples that left him wary but he could try.

“This _is_ good,” John said when he tasted the chicken, after the starter eaten in silence.

“Thanks.”

“How have you been?” She then asked softly. He sighed.

“The same. In other words, it still feels I haven’t picked up all the pieces and glued them back in, and some days it feels like I’m never even going to be able to,” he said silently.

“Thought so.”

“Can’t be much more broken,” John laughed darkly, thinking of all the things his life had thrown at him.

“Time will give you some fix-it,” Harry assured.

“Please, don’t.”

“I didn’t say it will be like nothing ever happened, of course not, but life tends to carry even the mourning widows on, I should know.”

“What “mourning widow”?!”

“Well, you are like one,” she said, only half-jokingly. He groaned.

“I wonder…”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t,” mumbled John.

“Did you love Sherlock, John?” She put down the cutlery and looked her brother straight into eyes.

“Of course, he was my best –“

“John,” she interrupted, “don’t play stupid. Romantically?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself and his heart at the moment. It might only be the loneliness that was clouding everything, making him misinterpret the volume of his feelings. He might have been in love with him but it didn’t matter anymore, and it didn’t matter back then because there was not a chance Sherlock would have felt the same, was there? Let alone admitted it. Besides, they had been happy with their relationship, if something was working, it needed not tweaking, right? And if the miracle he had begged would be granted, the horrors made undone, would he still love him? That was a preposterous thought but perhaps it answered the other question for him.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he finally said, taking a forkful of chicken and vegetables to get away from saying more.

“So you did.”

“Harriet.” John’s voice had a warning.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” She raised her hands, but John could see her thinking it was probably some kind of protecting mechanism for him, to not feel even more miserable because he had never told Sherlock and now it was too late.

“You will start again at the clinic soon, won’t you?” Harry changed the subject and went back to her food.

“Yeah, next week,” John replied.

“That’s good,” she smiled and then began to ramble about people in her support group and other happenings in her life. She even got a laugh or two out of John and she considered it a minor triumph.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dark, full of cigarette smoke, alcohol flowed and everyone looked shady or thuggish; this secret hole of the criminal world was straight from the pages of books of clichés. The bar was most likely totally illegal; it would have been harder to pass possible inspections, and the cigarette policy would be the least of their worries in case of one.

Sherlock was treading on a dangerous ground. Everyone knew what he looked like and this was a very bad place to get discovered at. He had masterful disguise and people rarely observed anyway but the danger was always there. He continued his slouched stride through the murky air towards one of the tables at the back. There sat a man with weather-worn face and nondescript clothes but his posture made clear he had more authority or connections than most of the wretched lot in this sink of the underworld. _He has been at some job last night_ , Sherlock took a note of his bleary eyes and boots that had collected soil.

“Grander,” Sherlock greeted. Damn he hated these cheek paddings. Fortunately this little scheme was soon played and he could leave this character to be forgotten.

“Hm? Oh, Billy, was it?” Grander made an effort for nonchalance but of course he knew who was supposed to meet him here and what for. He motioned Sherlock to sit down.

“Did you get what was requested?”

“Yeah, I’ve got the information. Piece o’ cake.”

“Yes, yes, about Murdoch. He wasn’t so smart after all, embezzling from his own.”

Sherlock stayed silent.

“So, the papers?” Grander asked.

“And my payment?”

Grander took an envelope from his breast pocket but kept it to himself and signed Sherlock to give him the papers first. Sherlock pulled a file from a battered bag he was carrying with him, and passed it to Grander. He opened it and browsed the papers quickly.

“Looks like what was promised,” Grander nodded and gave the envelope to Sherlock, watching him closely. Sherlock counted the notes quickly and nodded.

“Use it well,” he bid his farewell and got up.

“I will, I will,” Grander grunted. Sherlock hurried out of the abhorrent place but not too quickly to seem suspicious. No one gave him more than uninterested glance.

 

Later he discarded his Billy the hacker disguise and dressed in a tracksuit, sunglasses and hid his hair carefully under a cap. He made his way through a few streets and hopped on the subway to take him to his little bedsit, far enough from the central areas of London to minimize the chances of running into familiar people but close enough to get everywhere fairly quickly. Sometimes the best hiding place was in the plain sight but he still had to be on his toes every moment. He sighed. He missed as simple and vain things as wearing his stylish coat or letting his hair be as it was, not stuffing it under hats and wigs or straighten it. But soon he hopefully would be able to let this charade fall and go back home.

This Murdoch case was only a step in the ladder, he didn’t have anything to do with Sherlock’s quest but it had been an effective way to get some information on Sebastian Moran. Oh yes, soon he would catch that bastard.

 

The more time had passed, the more uneasy Sherlock had grown. He was actually worried about John. He had looked kind of lost the last time he had seen him. He couldn’t have resisted checking on him in secret. The others were coping much better, but John, the brave, sensible and strong John was a wreck. A pang of… guilt hit Sherlock. He was also slightly nervous what John would say when he learned Sherlock was alive and well. Somehow he didn’t think John would exactly understand why he had to do what he had done. It was so John to be stubborn and refuse to see the relevant parts.

“My silly John…”

 _My John_. Sherlock wouldn’t have usually let such sentimentalities drop from his lips but here in the tiny bubble of safe solitude he allowed a little of the fondness to seep through. Because the truth was, he was fond of John. Bloody hell, that was why he was now where he was. Moriarty had used people against him, and the most important part had been played by people he cared about. And so, he was where he was because he wasn’t as heartless as he played to be: there had always been the option of stepping away from that ledge and walk off. Except it really hadn’t been an option. But in theory it had been.

 

*

 

Harry was on phone and John stood in the window, looking absentmindedly at the darkened street. The rest of the dinner had gone lightheartedly with Harry telling harmless little anecdotes about people she knew or had seen. John was, to his shame, a little surprised how nice the evening had been. His gaze then flickered down to the cardboard boxes piled under the window. The one on the top was open: he saw there were miscellaneous small objects inside. Indeed, the box was labeled “antiques”. He wondered if they were really any worth or just old curiosities. Probably just old items because they were thrown into a box haphazardly. John picked up a brass horse figurine and then an ornate saucer.

“Pretty, huh? They don’t have much monetary value I think but Clara kept them anyway.” Harry had finished her call.

“And you kept them too,” he commented.

“Yeah… But in a box. So that at a weak moment I don’t need to see them,” she said quietly.

“I understand. Oh, look at us,” John gave a dry laugh.

“Yeah, the wrecked Watsons,” she quipped smiling sadly. John picked up a compact with delicate filigree flower decoration. The case had darkened slightly with age. He clicked the compact open; the mirror was in good condition. On the lower half someone had engraved something.

“Hortensia?”

 

*

 

“Miss Hortensia Cartwright, delighted to make your acquaintance!” On Mr Langdon’s face was the hugest smile.

“I’ve heard much about you, Mr Langdon,” Hortensia said, raising the corners of her mouth slightly to give an impression of a smile.

“Oh you have?” Mr Langdon was like an eager puppy. He was also carefully taking in her pale complexion, red hair and dark-hued quality dress.

“I said so, didn’t I?” Hortensia asked with feigned innocence. Mrs Cartwright resisted an urge to smack her impossible daughter with her fan. Instead, she cheerfully said: “And I think you know Miss Mary Bloomington here?”

“I indeed do, how do you do Miss Bloomington?” Only a little reluctantly Mr Langdon turned his attention to the blonde girl in beautifully cut pearl grey dress.

“I’m well, thank you. How’s your mother?” She smiled politely.

“She’s quite well, the country air does miracles to anyone’s health,” replied he. They conversed for a moment but were interrupted by Mr Blackwell.

“Do you ladies mind if I have a word with Mr Langdon?” He asked.

“Not at all! We were just chit-chatting,” Hortensia exclaimed quickly.

“Ladies,” Mr Langdon said and followed Mr Blackwell.

“Hortensia –“ her mother began but Hortensia cut her short.

“Mother. Don’t even for a second think that I will marry that dullard!”

“I didn’t –“

“It’s all too clear, he’s reasonably young but well off because he is working in his father’s company but he hasn’t frequented our parties or dinners before and I know you didn’t invite him to ask Simon or William to join in his business, which he wouldn’t do anyway because the Langdons are proud to keep the business in the family.”

“Alright. God knows even He couldn’t make you do something against your will,” Mrs Cartwright let out world-wearily.

“Let’s go Mary.” Hortensia grabbed her friend’s arm and lead her away from her mother and husband candidates.

“Sia, your mother is meaning well,” Mary scolded her friend.

“Not you too! You think I should marry him?” She was looking quite horrified.

“Oh dear, no! He is indeed rather boring,” Mary giggled.

“I should warn you, my standards are extremely high.”

“I believe they are, I wonder if there even is a person in this whole world who meets them,” she teased.

“To be perfectly honest, I shall not mind very much if I don’t ever marry.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself and so far the other aspects of marriage don’t interest me,” claimed Hortensia.

“But what of love? What if you find someone you love?”

“Hmm, I guess I would need to reconsider the situation, should that ever happen,” she pondered.

“And we are back in the high standards.”

“Exactly.”

 

*

 

“John, are you okay?” Harry’s worried voice brought him back to this moment, in his sister’s flat, to 2010s London. He felt a little disoriented and slumped on the floor.

“I think… I just got a glimpse of my past life,” John whispered astonished, looking at the old compact.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Really?” Harry stared at him astounded.

“Were you this… Hortensia?” She asked, pointing at the compact with engraved name.

“No… She was my friend. And…”

“And?”

“She was Sherlock,” he said with a little voice.

“What?”

“…Sherlock was this Hortensia in his past life, I’m certain of it; I could… feel it, for lack of a better term. I just knew.”

“Wow.”

“And she seemed just as impossible as him,” John let out a little sad laugh. Suddenly his chest ached and a clump appeared in his throat. Just when he thought it was all getting better, something new came to mix him again.

“When was it? Where?” Harry was enthralled and didn’t notice John’s uneasiness.

“Um… Victorian England.”

“I once read a book about a woman who had two children and she and those children had met in the past lives as different people but I’ve never met anyone with that kind of experience!”

“Don’t start with any fucking destiny stuff,” John warned, his eyes on verge of tears.

“Oh! Johnny, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“

“I know,” he whispered, “he’s haunting me from beyond time and space; that sod won’t let himself get forgotten, ever.” Harry reached to hug her brother.

“You don’t wanna talk about it?”

“No. I’m tired, Harry. I think I’ll go home,” he said wearily. He got up and was going to put the compact back to the box but Harry stopped her.

“Keep it.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” he frowned at the little case.

“No, you should take it. Put it in the box or cupboard if you don’t want to look at it but I think you should have it,” she insisted and John gave up.

 

 

The next day began uneventful and unemotional. The city was moist and chilly and the distant sun couldn’t bring much warmth to the crispy land. Clear and glistering; it was the kind of day everything was a tad too sharp, a tad too real. John went for a walk in the park, then to a grocery shop and back home. He was standing in the middle of the living room, unsure how to pass the time, when his gaze skimmed over the coffee table and the compact he had placed on it last night. The experience had been curious, he could admit now when the waves of sadness had passed. The engraved name had triggered… the vision, it could probably be called, and he wondered if that could be repeated. He sat down in the armchair and took the compact. Taking a deep breath, he clicked it open. Nothing. The graceful lettering didn’t induce anything this time.

Hortensia. What an unusual name. John smiled a little; this lifetime or that, his friend had an odd name, quirky looks and unconventional manners. He didn’t know much about past lives, he had never been very interested in them, and he wondered how much of characteristics carried over and if some people were more prone to carry their personality to the next life than others. From what Harry had said it seemed having the same people around you in separate lives was rare. Or perhaps knowing they were the same was uncommon.

He had sort of known to be watching something beyond time and space but at the same time he had _been_ that Mary girl. The line between was blurry. At that moment he had known what she had known but he couldn’t remember much past the scene he had seen. Extremely peculiar feeling. He looked at himself in the compact’s small mirror and –

 

*

 

The parlour swam in golden and orange light of both the setting sun and crackling fire in the fireplace. The books and papers had meandered from the shelves to the tables and windowsills when no one had bothered to put them back to the shelf after reading. On the beautiful but slightly tarnished wooden table sat a blue tea set and selection of biscuits and slices of bundt cake.

“You should be more careful!” Mary cried out. Hortensia frowned at her over the rim of her teacup.

“I didn’t plan to fall off the horse, Mary,” she remarked dryly.

“No, but you planned to ride recklessly into the forest,” Mary pointed out.

“I was tired of prancing around the meadow. And the forest is perfectly fine place to ride, you can’t blame me for unexpected fallen trees,” she defended.

“No, I can’t. And I don’t. I apologise, I got a fright when I heard you had been injured,” Mary said silently.

“I’m fine.”

“Lucky you didn’t break any bones.”

“Mmhh.”

Mary took another biscuit and leaned back in her comfortable chair. She looked at her friend who had now fallen deep into thought and was absentmindedly playing with a lock of her ginger hair. She was dressed in a simple blue dress and bedroom slippers. Mary smiled, amused, at the mismatch look.

“How’s the teaching going?” She then asked, rousing her friend from the depths of her mind.

“Hm? Oh right, it’s alright. The youngsters are quite talented and surprisingly patient, except Francesca. She doesn’t care for music or learning, the worst kind of pupil.”

“Try to be patient with her.”

“I told her parents she doesn’t want to learn anymore and I’m teaching only advanced players anyway and they said they’d talk with her. I doubt she will be coming to many lessons anymore.”

“I guess that’s best for the both sides,” mused Mary.

“It indeed is.”

The evening passed nicely with tea, firelight and conversations but finally Mary swept the crumbs off of her dark plum dress and stood up.

“I better go back home.” Hortensia sprung up from her chair, winced when her body reminded her of the bruised and battered state it was in, and blocked Mary’s way.

“Must you?” She asked.

“It’s getting late,” Mary said.

“Stay the night, then,” she said and Mary hesitated a moment, looking at her friend who had an oddly off look in her eyes.

“Sia, are you alright?” Hortensia’s request wasn’t unusual itself, they often had decided to stay overnight when their conversations or chess nights had reached the late hours of the evening, but something in her voice and eyes seemed… desperate this time.

“I’m… restless,” she only said and put her hand on Mary’s arm, “please Mary.”

“Of course,” she smiled at Hortensia. If her friend needed her, she would be there. Hortensia’s mouth that had been pressed to a narrow line curved to a delighted smile.

“I send the maid’s boy to take a message you will be staying here,” she announced.

 

*

 

Oh. Another vision. He knew, through Mary, this had been quite some time later that the one he had seen at Harry’s. It was disconcerting to be privy of the matters of these people; even if he had special connection with one of them, he couldn’t quite think that woman as himself. She had been her own person, and John was his own person now, yet he felt… home in her being. Forging the things that went through him during these visions into words and sentences wasn’t easy: language was inadequate to describe it.

“Confusing!” He huffed aloud.

“What is?” Asked a familiar voice from the door.

“Past lives,” John replied to Mrs Hudson who took the answer as an invitation to come in. She put down a plate with pieces of berry pie and took a seat.

“Have you learned about a past life of yours?” She asked.

“Yeah, I was an upper middle-class woman named Mary in the late 19th century,” John laughed.

“Oh! That’s interesting. I once got a glimpse of my in 1920s life as a poor mother of three, much better this life,” she mentioned, “that’s pretty,” she nodded at the compact. John handed it to her.

“Very pretty indeed. Who’s Hortensia?”

“She was Sherlock’s past self and Mary’s friend.”

“She was? Now, that’s sweet,” she said and smiled sadly at John. He cleared his throat and humoured Mrs Hudson with what he had learned about them.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

“Two twenty back, have a nice day,” the barista cheerily wished and Sherlock grunted a thank you. He had wrapped himself in very un-Sherlock-like quilted jacket and pulled a black beanie over his curls when he had had to leave his bedsit to avoid the risk of driving himself mad. His stomach had also protested the lack of any nutrition with a loud growl, so he, annoyed, grabbed a coffee and a croissant from a coffee shop.

He was making his way towards the tube station when something crashed on his legs.

“Minerva!”

 

*

 

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Daniel, happy birthday to you!”

The birthday dinner was held in the airy and light coloured flat of Daniel and his girlfriend Ellie. A handful of friends and relatives were present and that included of course their close friend Minerva and her husband Roy. The little gathering enjoyed the main course in the spacious kitchen/dining room and then moved to the living room for relaxed dessert of cake and hot and cold beverages.

“Hey there birthday boy,” Minerva greeted Daniel and enveloped him into a warm hug.

“Hi Minnie,” he beamed at her. She had chosen a green cocktail dress and left her sandy ringlets flowing free.

“I know you said not to buy presents but here’s something small, and it’s not anything bought anyway.” Minerva handed him a flat rectangular packet in gift wrap, roughly a size of A5 paper. Daniel made a surprised noise and unwrapped the little gift.

“Wow. That’s really good,” he said as he examined the small light wooden frame that held a detailed pencil drawing of him; a profile, brow slightly furrowed in thought.

“I sketched it when you were determined to beat Roy in that board game.” At that Daniel laughed a bit, in the end the determination hadn’t been enough and he had not won but had sworn to do it the next time, a challenge Roy had gladly accepted.

“Thank you,” he said warmly.

“I’m glad you like it,” she replied with a smile. She took a sip from her glass and noticed Ellie looking at them with an anxious expression. It was gone in a flash but it had definitely been there.

“Oh, there’s one thing I must ask Roy about, talk to you later,” Minerva came up with a little excuse and hurried across the room to her husband.

“Minnie?” Daniel called after her, puzzled.

Minerva listened to the the conversation of Roy and his colleague with one ear while surreptitiously watching Ellie to go to Daniel. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but saw Daniel showing her the drawing, without a doubt commenting on Minerva’s talent. Ellie nodded and waved her hand, saying something. Daniel was taken aback and shook his head. Ellie sighed. Minerva gritted her teeth. Ellie was jealous. She had grown unsure of herself and her place in Daniel’s heart and was not quite accustomed to the less passionate stage of the relationship. There would be rocky times ahead.

She didn’t use to be jealous of Minerva. They had met through Roy; he and Ellie were working in the same office and in time the four of them started to spend time together: dinners, movie nights, even a few vacations in the countryside.

Minerva acknowledged a problem though, a problem that had grown over the time but which could never be solved without pain. She was fairly sure Daniel was in love with her. Despite the looming problem, she felt she hadn’t given any particular reason for Ellie to be jealous of her, she was Daniel’s friend, and that would never change, but she would never cross further. She had a husband whom she loved. And even though in the most secret corner of her heart she admitted that if she wasn’t married she would’ve pursued a relationship with that kind hazel haired man, in reality that would never be.

Nevertheless, she feared the pain was unavoidable.

 

*

 

Sherlock snapped back to the present day, to the scene in the middle of sidewalk and noticed a four-or-five-year-old girl staring at him.

“I hurt you?” The girl asked cautiously.

“What? No, of course not, that’s silly,” Sherlock answered, his thoughts temporarily befuddled.

“Minerva, you must not sprint away like that! You could’ve get lost or run in front of a car!” A worried man, clearly the father, caught up with her. The girl looked embarrassed.

“The boy was mean,” she mumbled. The father stroked the girl’s hair gently and turned to Sherlock then.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised and nudged her daughter.

“I’m sorry,” she said too, shyly. Sherlock dismissed the matter with a wave of hand.  He was busy dissecting the curious experience in his mind and didn’t pay any attention to them anymore as they backtracked to where they came from. Sherlock turned around too and wandered back to his little flat, deep in thought.

 

Past lives. Sherlock had deleted or ignored most of the things related to those because they rarely played any role in cases. He might have heard about a case or two of people revenging to someone attached to a former self of theirs but that was most uncommon. Not every person even ever got to know a thing about their past lives and when they did, majority was busy enough navigating the tides of their current lives to let the past ones affect them very much. Sherlock hadn’t known who he had been and hadn’t been interested to know, it was irrelevant. He knew it was no use of trying to find out anyway, this much he hadn’t deleted; the information needed a trigger of some sort and it could be anything.

This time the trigger had clearly been the name. He had been a woman called Minerva, and the time period for that little scene had been in the early fifties. He and Minerva seemed quite different from the first glance, she hadn’t been tremendously socializing but much more… people person than Sherlock was. And yet she hadn’t felt entirely stranger to him. But the most surprising revelation was the man called Daniel. He had been John, or rather, someone he had been in the past. There was no doubt of it. He didn’t know _how_ he knew but he _knew_. He let out an unintelligible cry of frustration. Inexplicable things he could not tolerate.

John. They had been close in another life too. Was that common? Did it mean something? He flipped his laptop open and tapped impatiently the surface while waiting for it to boot. He clicked the browser open and typed in a few keywords.

After a good while of surfing, he had gathered that it wasn’t all too often people had the same persons around them in multiple lives. Some people argued they may not recognize the people during the flashes, and thus having connections with the same people across lifetimes could be more common than generally acknowledged. There didn’t seem to be an agreed explanation why some lives pulled each other together. More romantically minded called it destiny but rational thinkers said familiarity felt safe, and in the hierarchy of needs, safety comes right after physiological needs, so the beings might steer towards that on instinct. Or then it was pure coincidence: when some lives had similar types of cycle, they happened to fall close to each other again and again. However, this wasn’t something that could be easily and objectively researched, so conclusions were colourful to say the least. Wholly inconclusive.

“Good for nothing,” Sherlock huffed and closed the laptop.

It warmed Sherlock’s heavily guarded heart that their friendship reached beyond time and space. But right now Sherlock felt very alone, very far from everything, very lonely.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Phone ringed somewhere in his proximity. And it was so very loud. John groaned and fumbled for the mobile.

“Nnnhg?”

“Good morning brother dear, I hope you have not reverted back to a Neanderthal,” Harry’s voice echoed from the speaker.

“Ha ha.”

“Anyway, how are you?”

“Last night I was okay, about today I can’t say,” he replied groggily.

“D’you want to go for a coffee today?”

“What’s your scheme?”

“John, why thou wound me so? I don’t have any scheme, I just want to see you.” There was a slight real hurt in her voice but she tried to play it as a joke.

“Alright. I’m sorry, I haven’t quite woken up yet. When, where?” John felt a sting of guilt for doubting Harry at every turn. They agreed a time and place and as John got up he realised it wasn’t quite as early as he had thought, he had just slept soundly and long, exhausted of all the sleep deprivation and emotional turmoil that never seemed to excuse him.

 

“Hi Harry,” John said when he sat down to a table his sister had occupied in the cozy coffee shop not very far from Baker Street.

“Hello hello.”

“Harriet, I’m sorry,” John started. Harry’s eyebrows shot towards her hairline.

“You’ve been nothing but nice to me and tried to support me but I’ve been pushing you away or holding on to old grudges,” he explained, sighing and embarrassed.

“It’s alright, you’ve had hard time,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.

“Yeah but I’ve been a dick nonetheless,” gushed he.

“Okay, you’ve been a dick at times.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. But the apology was nice of you. And it’s accepted,” she grinned, “I’m not pretending to be saint, so next time I screw up, you may want to dig up some grudges.”

“Oh Harry, c’mon.” John knew her sister had a past of not so successful attempts to pull her life to the better rails but now she had been fine for quite some time.

“Hey, I’m not planning on a relapse but nobody’s perfect and all that shit,” she said somewhat pained. John smiled at her and said: “I have faith in you sis.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I had another vision of Mary and Hortensia,” John changed the subject.

“A flash.”

“What?”

“Usually the glimpses from the past lives are referred as flashes,” she set out.

“Ah, okay, anyway…” He told her briefly about the flash he had had.

“Interesting! Actually, I want to tell you something.” Harry was almost bouncing up and down on her chair. John motioned her to go on.

“I looked them up,” she revealed.

“You did?” Indeed, she had asked their surnames via text message but John had thought it was only out of curiosity.

“Yeah, there are those find your family and ancestry type of sites and services and I did some research,” she beamed.

“You seem to be more enthusiastic about this than I,” John laughed.

“It’s really intriguing, don’t you think?”

“Well, I guess it is,” he agreed, and now that Harry had such information at hand, he was interested to hear it.

“Mary Bloomington was born in 1848 and died in 1906. Hortensia Cartwright was born in 1844 and died in 1907. They lived in Bristol, by the way. Hortensia never married according to records but Mary, in 1879, married a merchant named – okay, this feels a bit weird – John McKinley,” Harry read from the notebook she had pulled from her handbag.

“Well, it’s a terribly common name,” John remarked, “but it does feel weird, I grant you that.”

“Yeah… So, they had one child, a daughter called Agnes. But guess her middle name,” Harry grinned. John grimaced; how utterly soppy Mary had been.

“Hortensia?”

“Bingo!”

“God forbid I’d name my kid, if I had one, after Sherlock,” John shook his head, “his ego wouldn’t have fit in the same room with him anymore. Or alternatively if the kid didn’t grow up to have massive intellect, he would’ve been insulted.” Harry laughed and John couldn’t help grinning too.

“Besides Agnes, McKinley had two sons from his earlier marriage. The wife number one had died shortly after the birth of their second son. McKinley died in 1895 and Mary didn’t marry again.”

“I see. That was quite interesting actually,” John said.

“Mmhh,” Harry nodded.

They chatted a while longer. On the way home John’s thoughts circled around the lives of Mary and Hortensia. He had said to Harry he didn’t want to know about Mary’s descendants, and he truly didn’t, but he kept wondering about things that happened to those two women long ago.

 

*

 

In the musty narrow alley Sherlock hit the brick wall, hard. He scratched his knuckles but ignored the little drops of blood and tingling pain. He wanted to scream but forced himself to draw deep breaths of air. Moran had pushed back the plans Sherlock waited to happen. And now he had to wait more.

The ache wringing in his chest was becoming suffocating. The grains of time were slipping through his useless fingers, draining the glimmers of hope with them. He couldn’t do a thing to coax Moran into action because if he revealed himself it wasn’t he who would be in danger, but John.

Why did he ache so much? It hadn’t been like this before. It hadn’t been this painful to put the fake suicide plan in motion. _Sometimes we don’t understand the value of something until we lose it_ , a small voice in his head said.

“I haven’t lost him,” he whispered to himself. It was only half true; John was alive and in London but he couldn’t go to him, making him as good as lost.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I did there? :P
> 
> Also, sorry if the people from the other lives don't interest you but I hope at least some of you like reading the little flashes. I myself quite like Mary and Hortensia, and Minerva and Daniel's life will feature the scene I first had in mind, the scene which I built this fic from.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Shadows glided across the walls of the buildings in the artificial light of the city. Sherlock dragged his feet towards the hateful little place he could never ever call home. He passed a lanky man in the street corner quietly smoking a cigarette.

“Spare one?” Sherlock asked on a whim. Hell, he needed one if he ever had needed one. The man shrugged and offered him to pick one from the packet and lit his cigarette.

“Thanks,” Sherlock said and continued his way.

A girl’s shrill voice pierced the air: “…not now or in the next life, idiot!”

 

*

 

Minerva took the last drag from her third cigarette and dumped it in the ashtray when she heard the doorbell ring. The house was eerily silent, like it feared even a little creak of the floors or cling of the windows would tip the world into madness. She was alone tonight, her husband was out meeting his friends.

“Evening Minnie,” Daniel said silently when she opened the door.

“Hi Daniel, come in.” They sat down at the kitchen table. On it was the remains of the late dinner she had had and she pushed the plates aside.

“So Ellie finally moved out,” she said to break the heavy silence.

“Our relationship hasn’t worked in ages,” Daniel said, “feels actually kind of relieving to be clear of it.”

“Mmh.”

“She was jealous of you, but you knew that already,” mentioned Daniel, with a little grimace.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to apologise, you never did anything wrong,” he frowned.

Something tingled inside Minerva; no matter how things progressed there was only hurt ahead. Why had such delightful things turned to prickly fruits?

“I love you, you know,” he said softly.

“I know,” whispered Minerva.

“But.”

“But I’m married and I love Roy,” she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice, “I’m sorry.”

“You are a good person, Minnie.”

“I’m not but this isn’t something I can do.”

“And I’m not asking you to. But a guy can dream, huh?” Daniel’s voice was strained.

“If things were different –“

“Yeah, if only we had met earlier, when our lives weren’t quite so ready… If only…”

“Daniel, don’t,” she pleaded. He reached to take her hands in his own and held them tenderly.

“I’d wait for you. But I guess we will have to wait until the next life,” he whispered. Hot tears fell silently down Minerva’s cheeks. She didn’t want to say it wasn’t comforting at all, if anything it stung even worst, he was ready to give her everything but she couldn’t give him anything. Something beautiful had burned to ash and nothing could rebuild it.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed to be only thing she was able to say tonight. She could only hope that if there indeed would be another life together for them, it would be a kinder one.

“Goodbye Minerva,” Daniel said and stood up.

“Daniel…” He shook his head. There wasn’t anything they could say anymore. He gave her one sad smile and left.

 

*

 

The girl shouting into her mobile had marched angrily away. Sherlock stood on the side of the pavement, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, blinking away the risk of tears. Last time during the flash he had been somewhat distant to the situation but now the impact of her pain carried over to him. He drew a wavering breath.

“Why did she care so much?!” He shouted out to the night, frustrated, “it was no use to her,” he continued in whisper. But didn’t he, in a way, care just as much? Life used to make so much more sense before. _Except it didn’t_ , his brain reminded him. His life had been a mess. And it was a mess again. He sighed. He needed to get things sorted out as quickly as possible or he would go mad. Or madder than he already was.

 

*

 

It was John’s last free day before he started the work again at the clinic. The bleak rays of sun played on the red mat and the wooden planks that had become polished by the age and the feet trampling on them. Around John’s lungs was a restraint and the air didn’t want to flow freely.

“For God’s sake, you’re a grown man, get a grip,” he told himself. He couldn’t be this worried about going back to work and see all the people there, could he? But his body didn’t like listening to his brain.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. He grabbed the newspaper from the coffee table. A paper underneath slid to the floor and he stretched to pick it up. It was the sheet from Harry’s notebook.

 _Mary > married in 1876 to_ –

 

*

 

She stood statue-like in the window, the light rendering her to a dark still silhouette rather than a person of flesh and blood. The door clicked open and shut and shuffling of the skirts was the only sound in the room.

“Hortensia?” Mary asked. Her friend didn’t turn to her, just kept staring outside.

“I know what you’ve come to tell me,” her flat voice said.

“News travel fast, huh?”

“Do you love him?” Hortensia turned her gaze to Mary. It was cold.

“He’s a good man –“

“I’m sure he is. I asked do you love him.”

“I guess I do,” sniffed Mary.

“Then I wish you happiness,” Hortensia said without emotion in her voice.

“Sia…”

“Remember when I asked you to move here with me?” She suddenly asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Why didn’t you?” Mary got confused: why did Hortensia bring up this old matter?

“You were afraid,” Hortensia continued when she didn’t answer, “you were afraid what others would think. There are numerous women living together for myriad of reasons but you were more concerned about what people think than what your heart says.”

“What are you on about?!”

“What would it have mattered what people think, Mary?”

“I –“

“No, it’s alright. If this is what you want, I’m happy for you. I’ll see you at the wedding.” Hortensia turned back to the window. Mary didn’t know what to say and even if she had, Hortensia wouldn’t have listened to her. She left the room silently.

By the front door she noticed she was still clutching to the filigreed compact Hortensia had forgotten to her house during her last visit. She had meant to give it back. She hesitated a moment and then slipped it to her coat pocket.

 

*

 

John groaned. That hadn’t gone well for Mary. Had she been that blind or just denying everything? He let out a little bitter laugh. Wasn’t that exactly what he had been doing himself? The previous flashes had been, in their own way, nice. This last one was just sad. And reminded too much how things had spiraled out of control and by that, out of reach. A sudden downward spiral with much too permanent destination.

Pain in every life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Minerva and Daniel in this chapter was where this fic began, inspired by a song.  
> I had first scribbled a slightly different version where it was Minerva who said about waiting till the next life but as I built up the story, it changed to this. In the first version it was this lifetime that Sherlock was called Hortensia, later when I created their 1800s versions, I thought the name suited better to that period.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Finally, finally, finally! At last, the moment had come and Sherlock could end this wretched game and come out of the shadows he had been adjacent to for too long. Familiar tingle of excitement and danger prickled somewhere in his stomach, now mixed with anticipation of seeing John again. Sherlock swiftly typed a text message. He wouldn’t recognize the number but he would be interested and would most likely see what would happen.

_To: Lestrade_

_Be at Yard tonight at 11 pm. Extremely important._

 

He had kept his coat bundled in his lap during the cab ride but before entering the New Scotland Yard, he pulled it on. He grinned; he might as well cause a couple of fallen items and faces frozen in unbelief. He ventured on. No one said anything. No one had words, except half uttered “wha” somewhere. Everyone probably thought they were hallucinating. He pushed the door to Lestrade’s office open without knocking.

“What is –“ Lestrade had stood up from his chair but fell now back on it, gaping at Sherlock with an expression of absolute disbelief. He rubbed his eyes but Sherlock didn’t disappear.

“Good evening Lestrade,” Sherlock finally said.

“My God, am I dreaming or are you a ghost?” Lestrade had stood up again and approached Sherlock carefully. He touched his shoulder, a part of him expecting his hand to swish right through.

“There are no such things as ghosts and I hope you are in your senses because there’s a really big fish out there to be caught, and there’s no room for failure,” said Sherlock, trying to remain patient.

“Give me a moment, you impossible bastard,” Lestrade shook his head, “how?” he asked, eyeing Sherlock like the answer could be written on him.

“I promise to explain it all later, there’s no time for that now,” he answered, “but you wouldn’t be alive without me being “dead”,” he added, hoping it would be enough for him for now.

“Okay, okay. What’s the big fish you mentioned?”

“A man called Sebastian Moran, he’s having “a gig” tonight and we can catch him. And he needs to be taken alive.”

“And the bit about not failing?” Lestrade dreaded the answer.

“John will be in danger,” Sherlock said with very serious voice, “and maybe you and Mrs Hudson too.”

“Christ… Shouldn’t we send someone to Baker Street?”

“Alright, but undercover and no entering the flat unless absolutely necessary. Suspicions must not be raised,” Sherlock said.

“Fill me in,” Lestrade commanded.

 

The dark narrow door with gilded numbers and a letter loomed in front of him. The light nightly traffic flowed by behind him. He tried to will down the flickerings somewhere behind his ribcage and down in his belly. Moran was successfully caught and now there was no more danger, and soon Sherlock’s name would be cleared. And he was able to go home. He turned his phone over in his hands, trying to decide if he should warn John or just walk in. Poor man might faint if he didn’t have a forewarning.

 

Beep beep. He had been sleeping very lightly, or more like fading in and out of sleep, and the sound of his text alert pulled him out of thin hazes of slumber. Who texted him at this hour anyway?

_Please don’t faint. That’d be so… Victorian._

The number was unknown. Probably wrong number since the message didn’t make any sense to John. He sighed and put the phone back.

Beep beep.

_I didn’t text wrong number._

Suddenly all his blood seemed to drain from him, leaving him cold and stiff. With great difficulty, he typed an answer:

_Who is this?_

Beep beep.

_Miracle._

John took a sharp breath as a spark of fury kindled. This was not funny. He abandoned all hope of sleeping anymore and decided a cup of tea was exactly what he needed to sooth his nerves. He could take a nap later, it was his free day tomorrow, or rather today. He slipped into his striped dressing gown to shield himself from the nightly chill and padded downstairs, wary. Nothing seemed to be off though. He pushed the door leading to the kitchen open and switched on the lights. He reached for the kettle.

“John.”

The world must have stopped then. Stopped and faded away because everything John could recall of that moment was the figure in the doorway and odd rushing feeling in his head. He didn’t know how long they stood there looking at each other; it could’ve been seconds, minutes, days. It was like he was never gone: he had his coat and scarf, his curls were slightly windswept, the pale eyes read John quickly and then locked into his.

“Hello,” Sherlock said softly. The world kicked back into motion and the rushing in John’s head changed to pounding of his heart. He half stepped, half stumbled forward and crushed Sherlock into a sudden hug. Sherlock got taken by surprise but in a second he relaxed and carefully wrapped his arms around the form clinging to him.

“Oh my God…” John mumbled, “it’s really you.”

“Yes.” Slowly he rested his cheek against John’s head. John took a deep breath. Sherlock smelled of night air and of something slightly foreign, of some other place, of some place he must have been hiding. But he _felt_ very familiar even though John realised they hadn’t actually ever hugged before and he held on tighter. A sob escaped from his lips.

Sherlock didn’t say a word but tightened the embrace when he felt John starting to silently cry against his shoulder. He had anticipated more anger but he predicted there would be angry words hurled at him later. He wasn’t even very surprised at himself anymore for liking to hold John in his arms and savoured the moment that might be one of a kind. After a while John inhaled deeply a couple of times and took a step back to look at Sherlock with his now red-rimmed eyes. Sherlock quickly dropped his arms at his sides. John’s gaze was fixed on his face, trying to read it and his own full of indecisiveness.

“Why? How?” John finally asked quietly.

“Sit down, it’s rather long story.”

 

Overwhelmed. There was no other word to describe John Watson’s state.

“You reckless idiot! Only you could –“ He started to yell but cut himself short with a slightly mad laughter. Sherlock looked at him quizzically. If there was one person in the whole wide world that managed to surprise him, it was the seemingly ordinary John Watson.

“I don’t know anymore… The world is absurd,” John said.

“Care to elaborate?”

“First, I’m angry at you. Fucking angry to be precise,” he spit out, his eyes flashing dangerously, “you leave me out of your plans, go on hunting dangerous criminals all on your own and let me believe you’re dead. Dead! I went to your funeral! That’s cruel, Sherlock, _cruel_. God, I want to punch that idiot face of yours.”

“I did expect more punches and less hugging,” confessed Sherlock. John let out a dry laugh.

“But secondly,” he cleared his throat, “I’ve probably never been more relieved in my life, and that includes waking up after getting shot.”

Sherlock fell speechless. What could he say? There was so much he should say but he didn’t know if he could. But as he hesitated, John continued: “After something I experienced, even more so.”

“What?” Sherlock splurted. John told him to wait a second. When he came back he gave Sherlock the filigree compact.

“That was yours, a long time ago.”

“John, I’m absolutely positive I’ve never –“

“Not your current you, silly.” At that Sherlock made a surprised noise and clicked the case open to examine it.

“It belonged to Hortensia Cartwright, that’s your past self,” he pointed out the engraved name, “and after that it was in possession of Mary Bloomington, who was… well, was me.” Sherlock raised his eyes from the compact to John who had remained next to him, half sitting on the kitchen table. John summarized the flashes he had seen and mentioned what Harry had found out.

“First they brought just more pain back, then I thought it was kinda interesting and finally I was just sad again,” he spoke quietly.

“Incredible!” Sherlock exclaimed. John sighed bitterly: “Yes, sentiment, ain’t it incred –“

“No, John, no!” He grabbed John’s arm to keep him where he was. “That’s not what I meant. You see, I have pieces of past to share too.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but not the same past.” He went on to tell John about Minerva and Daniel.

“And I don’t know what happened after the night she had turned him down,” Sherlock finished.

“Wow,” John whispered.

“I know.” A silence fell to the kitchen.

“Umm… We are their next life, aren’t we?” John thought aloud.

“Yes, I think we are,” Sherlock slowly replied, watching John closely.

“Um, right.” John had fixed his gaze ahead, avoiding looking at his friend. Sherlock rose from the chair and stepped in front of John, forcing him to break the staring contest with the cupboard door.

“John,” Sherlock called softly and John raised his dark blue-grey eyes to meet Sherlock’s. His face was full of contradicting expressions, like he was battling with himself, wanting to flee but he wouldn’t move; he was frozen in indecision. A surge of… yearning shot through Sherlock and he slowly leaned towards John.

But before Sherlock could kiss him, John suddenly yanked him closer and crushed his lips hungrily on Sherlock’s. He kissed ferociously, his tongue attacking Sherlock’s, his hands raging in the thick curls. Sherlock uttered a small surprised noise and melted into the kiss, pressing closer to John and drinking the wildness of the kiss. He moaned into John’s hot mouth. Why oh why hadn’t they kissed before? Soon they had to gasp for air but didn’t let the other back away even an inch.

“Damn…” John breathed. “You’re not kissing me just because my past self hoped so?” He suddenly asked, mostly joking but a teeny tiny bit serious.

“No, you silly. I’m kissing you because I want to.” Sherlock cupped John’s cheeks and leaned in to give him a feather-soft, velvet-tender, slow kiss. John hummed approvingly. He hadn’t even guessed Sherlock could be so gentle, his volatile personality suggested crackling fire and whirlwinds, not balmy breeze and sweet warmth. He rather liked finding out new sides of the detective.

“I’m still angry though,” John reminded him.

“Mmh, alright. Am I at least partly pardoned?” He purred into John’s ear and went on to pepper his neck with little kisses.

“You… devil. You’re not… charming your way out of… this,” he find it extremely difficult to concentrate, so he took Sherlock’s head between his hands and looked sternly into his eyes.

“I think I will not punch you but you must understand there were things that were _not_ okay and we need to talk about it.”

“I am sorry. I really am,” Sherlock said earnestly. John nodded and pulled him closer for another kiss, strong and sure this time.

 


	8. Epilogue

 

Sherlock sat on the bed, back against the headboard, in his almost dark bedroom. The lamp on his nightstand was on but otherwise the room was shaded in hues of black and blue. The red streaks of the digital clock showed 2:48 am. Next to him John was contently sleeping, only occasionally making a little sniffle. They hadn’t much talked about their relationship, it just… happened. Much of it was the same as before, now there just was the added intimacy. They hadn’t actually gone on announcing it around the town but most people knew they were an item now anyway. Hell, Harry never let John hear the end of it.

Sherlock reached for his phone; he might as well check some headlines since sleep wasn’t going to come to him, but his fingers hit Hortensia’s compact instead. The old case was just one more item among the curiosities of 221B Baker Street but it held a special meaning, even if Sherlock would never admit it aloud. A silly old –

 

*

 

The sun shone like it was the most perfect day on Earth but for Hortensia Cartwright it was the darkest day of her life. The tree branches rustled in the mild wind. The others had gone already but Hortensia had stayed behind for a moment.

“Mary,” she whispered. No one, least of all Mary, answered.

“Mary, did you really not see it or did you ignore it on purpose?” She didn’t know why she said it aloud.

“True, I never said it. I guess… I guess I was a little afraid too. That you wouldn’t understand and you’d shut me out.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Even if it’s too late now… I love you.”

Hortensia turned away and slowly followed the dirt path out of the cemetery. A bird sang somewhere in the tree tops.

 

*

 

“Oh!”

Sherlock turned to poke sleeping John.

“John, John!” The doctor stirred but didn’t open his eyes. Sherlock shook him.

“Wha… What’s the matter?” John cracked one eye open and found the detective looking at him seriously and eagerly. At least there was no danger then. He mumbled: “Couldn’t it wait until the morning?”

“No, absolutely not.” At that John just lazily lifted an eyebrow.

“John Watson, I love you.”

The sleep was suddenly gone. John gaped at Sherlock. While saying it wasn’t necessary, for they both knew very well what the other felt, hearing it made John all fuzzy warm inside.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” he said softly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope some of you enjoyed the ride and sorry if they are too fluffy for your taste, I'm a sucker for fluffy stuff...


End file.
